


A Fuck Amount of Pies (or, Three Hundred Quiches)

by Moonlark



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Beyonce Songs, Quiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone agrees with Bitty that quiches are pies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fuck Amount of Pies (or, Three Hundred Quiches)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frogy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogy/gifts).



> Hope you like how it turned out.
> 
> Sorry I'm a couple days late with this. My family had a major health scare. It was a tough few days waiting to find out if the mole removed from my brother's neck was cancerous or not. Turns out it was, but they think they caught it in time and he's gonna be fine.

Shitty’s lounging (mostly naked and reading a really interesting recently published paper on gender roles in today’s society) in Jack’s bed when the front door to the Haus slams downstairs. There’s a bit of a clamor as what sounds like the oven is thrown open, and a burst of unusually forced Beyonce lyrics drifts up the stairs, vowels clipped short. A few moments later, a pair of speakers burst into life, _Flawless_ echoing through the kitchen.

Bitty sounds pretty fucking angry.

“I smell the scent of angry baking,” Shitty remarks as Jack appears in the doorway, looking tired and Canadian as usual.

“This boy in the food class was being an idiot,” Jack replies, being responsible and starting some homework. “He kept insisting that quiches weren’t pies. And he pronounced it quickie once.”

No wonder Bitty’s rage-baking. He’s overprotective of his pies. You can insult him almost as much as you want, but if you even say a sideways word about baked goodies to him, he gets freaky defensive. Baking becomes a defense mechanism. It’s better than murdering people, though (and if anyone’s gonna do that, they should go to the Murder Stop-and-Shop. The Haus already has enough ghosts.)

Still.

“Someone go talk to him.”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t want to interrupt the rage-baking.”

Shitty can’t believe this. “Do you or do you not remember what happened last time?”

Jack’s sightly confused. “What last time?”

“Last time Bitty rage-baked, bro! Is your brain gone?”

Aaaand there’s the slight dread creeping onto Jack’s face. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. Every surface in the kitchen covered in pies. Pies waist deep. No room for beer in the fridge! Or even in a cooler!!” It’s such a terrifying memory that he’s almost shouting by the end.

The memory of the tepid beer would be enough to motivate anyone else on the team, but Jack probably only gets up to come down and participate in the intervention because he’s a nice, polite Canadian and waist-deep pies are not pleasant (they’re a bit too sticky).

The scent of pies is heavy in the air when they enter the kitchen. There’s a small iPod dock blasting _Beautiful Liar_ , and flour dust on every surface in the room. At least ten pies are cooling on the counter, and another three are in the middle of being baked, filled, or otherwise prepared.

“Bittle,” Jack begins, “this is excessive.”

Bitty’s shoulders jerk slightly, so it’s obvious he heard but is choosing to ignore them because Jack is a tactless idiot.

“Bits, c’mon, I wanna still have a space for beer when you’re done,” Shitty says. That argument, more trivial and a bit comical even, works much better. Bitty turns around enough that they can see the manic, enraged glint in his eyes.

“Please leave me alone,” Bitty says, voice shaking as his indignation wars with the nice Southern gentleman he was taught to be.

“All right, Bits. What’s wrong?” Shitty says, because it is completely obvious that Jack is not able to handle this situation well, no matter how fast he and Bits are hurtling toward each other (metaphorically, in the feelings department).

Bitty’s hands clench into tiny fists, and he says in a carefully controlled voice, “There is a boy in the Women, Food, & American Culture class that keeps insulting quiches.”

“Insulting them how?”

“He said they weren’t pies! That’s not true! Even Wikipedia agrees with me! Look!” Out comes the phone. “Type: savory PIE!” Bitty spits out, hands akimbo, and wow, this is even better than that time he and Jack got in an argument over how to pronounce pecan.

“Look, Bits, the guy’s obviously just being an ass, don’t sink to his level.”

“I’m not!!! I’m not going around dealing mortal insults to that boy-band he was wearing a t-shirt for!!! I’m dealing with this like a normal person!!!!!”

“By rage-baking ten thousand pies?”

Bitty begins to look rather cowed. “Well… I wasn’t going to bake ten thousand pies…”

Oh, good.

“…only, like, three hundred or so.”

THE FUCK?!!! THREE HUNDRED FUCKING PIES?! THAT IS A FUCK AMOUNT OF PIES! THAT IS ENOUGH PIES TO FEED A NORMAL PERSON FOR OVER A YEAR! OR A HOCKEY PLAYER FOR NINE MONTHS! OR A HOCKEY TEAM FOR TWO WEEKS! THAT IS A _FUCK_ AMOUNT OF PIES!!!

Even Jack looks somewhat startled by the pie amount estimate. Which, seriously, is a fuck amount.

Shitty tips a chair back and rests his feet on the table. “So, no to the three hundred pies, Bits, unless you’re gonna, like, take them to a homeless shelter or something.”

“Well…” Bitty starts, and then looks thoughtful. “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

What have you done, says the look on Jack’s face.

“And most of them will be quiches,” Bitty continues, “for the nutritional value and to show that f— that guy in the Women, Food, & American Culture class what a quiche really is.”

Jack makes a quiet exit.

Shitty laughs, rolls a joint, and proceeds to get stoned, because when he’s stoned, Bitty’s pies smell ’swawesome. Well, they smell ’swawesome all the time, but weed makes everything better.

 

(Later)

Shitty’s lounging in Jack’s bed again, reading _Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche_ because it is ironically appropriate for the situation. The scent of quiche lorraine is thick in the air, and _Drunk In Love_ is playing. Jack is still typing at his desk. Fucking responsible Canadian.

“I feel like the three hundred quiches are going to cause some regrets,” Jack says eventually.

“You fucking kidding me? It’s ’swawsome.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, but doesn’t egg go bad?”

Shitty stares at him. “That’s what you’re worried about?!”

“Well… bad egg smells bad.”

“So eloquent.”

“You are being annoying and I am going to go downstairs to study.”

“Whatever, bro. Go make your boyfriend happy.”

“Wha—Bittle’s not my boyfriend.”

And yeah, Shitty knows that, but here’s one area where Johnson was right, at least—it’s inevitable. “Then what the fuck are you waiting for? Bro, for the fifth time, graduation isn’t getting any further away, and the sexual tension is funny but it’s starting to get old!”

“There is no sexual tension.”

“Wow. Many denial. Much hockey robot. So feelings. Wow.”

“Fuck you too.”

Downstairs, the front door opens loudly. A few seconds later, Ransom and Holster can be heard yelling, in unison, “The FUCK, Bitty. Where has all the surface area gone? Why is everything covered in egg pies?”

There’s a moment of silence, as if preparing for a storm that never comes. Then Bitty says, “Finally, people who understand the pie-ness of quiche.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the way my mom sent me the family quiche recipe just before I sat down to start writing. It's like quiche lorraine, but with smoked salmon, and we affectionately call it "fish bacon egg pie".
> 
> And yes, Wikipedia does agree with Bitty on this one.


End file.
